


lick on my knife and honour the taste

by orphan_account



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Dominant Masochism, F/M, Frottage, M/M, Reader Not Specifically Gendered, Reader-Insert, makes I DONT KNOW sound, reader likes to piss henry off
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-24
Updated: 2018-01-24
Packaged: 2019-03-08 21:14:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13466667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Is it worth it, you wonder, letting him muck you up, yourshoesup, for a couple minutes of thrill, maybe to get off? (Ooh,yes.) “Gonna paint ‘em with your fuckinggutsif you don’t shut up.”





	lick on my knife and honour the taste

**Author's Note:**

> title from crx's broken bones.

“The fuck’re you looking at?”

“Nothing.” It skates, _slips_ from you, puddling over your sneakers floor like a particularly juicy loogie. The heels of your Keds scuff— struggle— skip against it, struggling to find purchase in the gravel. _Flail all you want, kid!_ There’s not a chance in hell you’ll leave unscathed now, and you can probably dig it. “Nuh-nothing, Henry, I ss- _wear_ —” You swear! (You swear, oh, you’ve _sworn_ , and you really owe it to him now, you gotta give it to him now!) Glee bubbles, geysers through you, all of you. A small part of you swears you had things to do but with your arch of your back stabbed by the hard rotting boards of the kissing bridge there’s not a single fucking thing you can think of that’d be a better use of your time. (Oh, boys boys _boys!_ Maybe making the cut from Derry Elementary to High’s all worth it after all.) “Leggo of me, Henry, I wasn’t gonna tell. I won’t, Henry, I—”

Your eyelashes bat, flutter, making dusky shadows and shapes across the apples of your cheeks of their own accord. His features scrunch up like the wads of spit-damp paper Trashmouth-Tozier’d been ‘accidentally’ volleying at him all through last period— then, calms abruptly, going placid and smooth. Not a ripple in that pond. Not a drop of blood in that water. “’course you won’t.” His vicious half-grin opens like a big bloody slice of watermelon across his face, his dirty face— the face you could mash yours to without a care and just— just have at it, you suppose.

You’ve never kissed anyone and hell, even Jagermeyer and Spazzy Taylor have— one of the Clark twins each. (You’ve heard that neither can tell just which one they macked on. _That's_ funny.) 

Even Hockstetter has.

You smile, a wide, sloppy thing filled with bullshit and bile and spittle courtesy of your upset gut the first time he’d sent a fist into it while dragging you here. Henry _doesn’t_ like that: his mouth sets grimly, and, really, it’s probably in your best interest to stop _pissing him off_ — he’s got two fists balled up in your new shirt and all his weight atop you, and it would be so easy for him to pitch forward, knock you about a bit and hurl you over the bridge and make a runner for it, —no one’d believe he’d done it and you’d have to smart and sting all the way back home to West Broadway, past fucking _Hockstetter’s_ house, fucking _christ_ — but you’ve got an inkling he _won’t_. He won't let you off that easy. His eyes’ve gone cold as a corpse. “’course you fucking won’t,” he repeats and loosens his grip just enough for your chest to swell and for you to draw breath.

Before you can make a break for it he’s got a hand shimmying down your pocket and you can’t help it; your traitor’s mouth opens and gapes and from it blares a jolly, “ _Ohshit_ , you’re really into this, aren’t you, Bowers? Gonna fucking _whack_ it over me, Henry, gonna—?”

He hits you, hard, with the heel of his palm and your world spins as your head flies back with the force of the motion and hits a beam of the bridge, hard. Summer dims, dwindles around you, a slush of sensation and heat, pain and the heady ebb-and-flow of intrigue and wanting. There’s something measured and full of intent in the beetle-black set of his gaze when you come back around feeling raw and dazed and absolutely totally one-hundred-percent _alive,_ something that thrills more than scares you. It _should_ probably scare you; it should terrify you, but.  _You are fucking alive!_ Classroom jibes and pawning off rumours to Tozier in exchange for Winstons and the flash of sharpened glee off his coke-bottle set are  _nothing_ compared to this. Henry's tongue darts over his lips, (chapped, ragged) snakelike. _Look, here, look at this: this bitch bites!_ Warning: you’ve stepped on a fucking _rattlesnake_.

Oh, you _love_ it. “How am I—” he starts, then stops, turns to the side. “How am I gonna make sure you don’t keep running that fucking mouth, huh? Running it 'cross this whole shithole town?” You sway patiently as he sweeps his tongue over his bottom lip again, familiarising yourself with the hard scrape of splinters across your back. His lips are made for snarling, pinpricked by blood. They flash— _oh_ , they _glitter_ good as gold in the noonday sun, and in an instant you see what he’d been wriggling his hand down his pants for, you see the

_knife_

pressed suddenly to your hip.

You wail, _(”Oh hell—”)_ a strangled, caterwauling sound. He grins. _NOT SO TOUGH, AIN’TCHA?_ says that grin. That and something darker, with _venom_. “Want me to cut you a new one, you fucking freak?” Spittle drips down his chin in technicolor definition, all of him highlighted, unfolding before you in the vibrant slush of anticipation and terror. There’s so much of him, too much of him, too much to bear. “C’mon, motor-mouth. C’mon.” He hits you again and you bounce like a ragdoll, tasting copper, sucking it from the roof of your mouth when he rights you with a furious jab to your throat.

“God, Henry, I don’t know. How are ya, Henry? How're you gonna make me shut it?” Somehow, you’re still rattling off, babbling on like a fucking brook. “How’re you gonna make sure I don’t spill?” You want to spit on him— oh, he’d _hate_ that. You could _spit_ on him— you _could!_  You don’t, but only by the virtue of the blade making its way up the nooks in your ribs, wriggling like a snake. Want throbs through you, pooling at your groin. "Tell me, c'mon. You gonna cut my tongue out?" He doesn’t _see_ it. He _won’t_ see it. You need him to see it.

You need him to see _you. “Ohshit! Are_ you? Gonna kill me, Henry? Leave me down for the flies, the flies and the maggots, them fuckin’ _maggots,_ to eat?” _Eat and eat and eat me up like the cunts of those deadgirls the kids figure you killed late spring, early summer?_ They wouldn’t find your body, not in Derry; only Henry rocking back and forth on his heels before it, maybe whacking it on occasion to the idea of what he'd done. The _sensation_.

 _God_ , what’s more putrid? That thought, the imagined smell of that thought, or your fucking _mouth?_ He _gets_ it then: his mouth twists and that horrid, poisonous _certainty_ (the sheer dark _will_ that’d furrowed his brow so deeply and flashed off his teeth like sunlight off knife’s edge) that reeked of more danger than you're used to, and genuine murderous intent— all that, it flees him. He gets you anyways with a savage kick to the thigh instead of what it'd suggested he do to you, and you sink, held up by him alone. Dangled over a fucking bridge, for chrissakes. God, it just keeps getting better. One of you has to get off sooner or later— what can he do to top _this?_

“Like your shoes, bitch.” He says it, eyes glazed, in a way that frightens you. As if he's watching from some point in the distance. As if he could do anything to you. Not as hellbent, as cruelly certain as before, but _cold_. (Corpse-cold, cold as maggots, as the knife circling your upper thigh as if _nibbling_ at your groin. Christ, this kid. Christ, _Bowers!)_  His boot comes down hard over your toe and you wail, then laugh, then wail again. "You get 'em for school? Fucking 'course." You wince. They’re brand new, unmarred and bright Colgate white. Is it worth it, you wonder, letting him muck you up, your _shoes_ up, for a couple minutes of thrill, maybe to get off? (Ooh, _yes_.) “Gonna paint ‘em with your fucking _guts_ if you don’t shut up.”

You giggle shrilly, _Hockstetter’s_ giggle; he flinches as if stung. Fucking Henry; sweet, predictable Henry and all his inane anger. All these goddamn small-town _secrets._ (You realise, somewhat happily, that you’ve struck gold with this one, you really have.) What could he give you to stop you ratting him out to everyone ‘round town, swinging by the Derry PD, the Bowerses' farm? What could he—

His mouth is really so close to yours. You can see the fine, downy hairs over his upper lip and chin; each one of his fucked-up teeth in his fucked-up mouth. You figure it’s now or never. You figure—

You hike a leg up, all gentle, in slow movements. No point in startling a snake. No point in kicking the fucking dog, or the coyote, or whatever— you’re out here for a ride, (and Henry’s an okay specimen, like a Jeep with just one knifed tire, maybe, or a busted mirror) not gravel in your mouth and a boot to your ass even if they’re nice boots and you probably wouldn’t mind them a little closer to your face, over your cheek, just to smell the leather, feel him _twitch_ —

“Don’t gotta do that, Henry. I’ll shut up. I’ll zip it up, I swear.” You’ve got a knee in between his legs, sliding back and forth against the crotch of his jeans, and you’re working up a shaky rhythm when you feel the first droplet. 

 _Plip!_ Into the space between your second and third knuckles, running down into your palms, a bright bead of blood. Another hangs from his chin, his rigid jaw, growing fat as you watch, open-mouthed. _Plip!_ He’s _biting_ his lip. Shredding it into pieces. When he looks at you it’s with a hazy sort of amazement, like he’s fucking seeing you for the first time, recognising you, even. It’s not an entirely good thing; his hands find your hips, yes they _do_ , but they’re rigid claws gripping tight enough to bruise and

you know he won’t kill you but maybe you reckoned wrong,

maybe he’s capable of _worse_.

“I’ll shut up,” you croak, leaning into the knife. “I’ll shut up, is that a deal? Henry?”

You’re on a precipice in ways than one, the slow slide of your back over the bridge the least of your worries. How fucking awful would it be if he released you? If he shoved you back, kicked the shit out of you, left? You let your eyes flutter shut. “Henry—” you try, shooting for a smile, a leer, and then all the breath rushes from you because he rocks forward, teeth grazing your cheekbone. Throat _right there_ and trembling, cock a definite outline in his jeans now nudging at your thigh.

“I’m not fucking deaf. Fucking weirdo. Fucking _sick_.” There’s a high note in the derisive tone of his voice, a crack, almost, interrupting the rush in which it spills from him, and the hand that slides ‘round to cup your cheek is sweaty, hot. He doesn’t know what to do, much less with you, he doesn’t _know_ , but when your eyes open again he's started grinding against you, teeth grit, expression rictal. You tip your head back and surrender (and there’s a joke, isn’t there? Surrender. Fucking _surrender)_ to the feeling, gasping, almost with laughter. It’s the closest you’ve gotten to— release, catharsis, any kind of good _fun_ since the fucking beginning of the year, but his movements are shaky, and he won't shut up _("thefuck'reyoulookingat?")_ and—

There’s a strange moment of clarity where you feel almost protective of him, this rattlesnake boy who’d shot daggers into the back of your head all through class, currently wholly preoccupied by rutting against you when just five minutes ago he’d looked ready to pull your guts out your belly and string you up by them.

 _It’s okay, we can work it out._ You giggle again, shrilly. _Gonna cause me some hurt like this, Henry? Gonna kill me now?_ A groan dribbles from him of its own volition and you grin into the line of his jaw, attention flitting every so often to the knife still at your ribs. He notices. _Lucky_ you.

“Fuck you with it, freak.” It rolls and splutters from him, bumpy over his lips and through his crooked grin dripping spit and blood. “Fucking shove it down your _throat_ —”

 _Oh_. Breath whistles through your teeth as you let your legs drift open to accommodate the bumpy roll of your hips. _Oh!_  “Thank you,” you gasp, and you’re not sure why, but you can’t stop, and it pours from you now, jumping an octave each time he thrusts against you, denim on denim. You’re so _close_ it’s embarrassing, fired up by his presence alone, the serrated points of the buck knife nibbling at your side. “Thank you, thank you, thankyouthankyou _thankyou—”_

Maybe if he doesn’t push you off the bridge when he’s done he’ll let you get even closer to his boot.

**Author's Note:**

> ehhhh i dont know


End file.
